Find a Christian store

<< Go Back

Joseph: The Other Father (Intrepid Men of God) (Volume 5)

By Katheryn Maddox Haddad

Order Now!

1 ~ Hurdles

“He’s at it again.”
“Who?” Pinchas asks, putting out another cluster of grapes for hungry customers.
“Joseph. Look at him. He’s coming up the street now,” Ovadi says, pulling at his ear and forming a large grin.
“You would think he could afford a wagon by now,” Pinchas responds, joining his partner in front of their booth.
“He told me he could, but he can’t afford an ox to pull it.”
“Well, he’s almost big enough to pull the wagon himself.”
“He’s going to break his back if he doesn’t quit doing fool things like that,” a woman calls out from her own booth of hot flat bread.
“Here come the children behind him,” someone else shouts.
Joseph, with dark bushy hair, some of which is in his eyes, marches down the middle of the Bethlehem market with a tree over his shoulder.
“At least he has the sense to cut the branches off before he brings it down out of the hills,” the husband of the baker howls.
Joseph’s big shoulders bulk up under the load. His breath comes hard as his big chest heaves to fill his labored lungs. His big feet lift and fall in heavy steps. His knees shake. He blinks to get the sawdust and salty sweat out of his eyes. His head juts forward as though doing so will get him to his destination sooner.
“Come on, Joseph!” Pinchas shouts.
“You can do it!” Ovadi hollers.
“Just a little farther,” the husband of the baker bellows.
The children laugh and squeal and clap their hands.
The adults shout and roar and whistle.
“C’m on, Joseph!”
“C’m on, Joseph!”
“C’m on, Joseph!”
With that, Joseph lunges one last time, bends his back low, and lets go of his tree.
It falls to one side, bounces, and rolls to a stop at the outer wall of his little carpenter shop.
He puts both big hands on his knees, sucks in his breath, gives his heart time to slow, then rises. He turns to his friends gathered in the street, holds both arms above his head, forms a broad grin, and pronounces, “I did it!”
The crowd smiles, shakes its collective head in amazement, and disburses back to its usual morning routine. Adults go back to stocking their booths. Children go back to playing in the street.
Joseph unlocks the gate into his shop, which is mostly a courtyard with a single room at the far end. In his one and only room is a mat on the floor, a place to store his tools so they do not get rained on, and a peg on the wall for a clean tunic.
He has two wooden benches and two tables. He sets tools on the one inside his room when they need fixed or oiled or sharpened. He sets pieces of furniture, window sashes and doors on the much larger one in his courtyard so he can sand or chisel a design into them.
He tramps over to the small well in the cobble-stone of his courtyard, pulls up a pail of cool water, chug-a-lugs half of it and pours the other half over his head.
He sits on the courtyard stool, hands on his knees, thanks God for a successful morning, then returns to the still-open gate. Out on the street, he pulls one end of his tree around, then pulls it into his courtyard, closing his gate with one hand, and setting the overage on top of his gate with the other.
The afternoon is spent sawing the tree in half, shaving off the bark with his adze, then hammering wedges in it with even spacing in order to form boards.
“What did I tell you?” Joseph hears out in the street.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” comes a child’s reply. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hit me again.”
“You are never going to learn unless I beat it into you.”
“No, please. I’m sorry.”
Joseph throws down his mallet, leaves his wedge in the tree, and rushes to open his gate. He charges out onto the street in search of the voices.
He spots the potter, his hand over his head ready to bring down the whip onto the child’s back again. With just a few strides, Joseph arrives next to the man, reaches up, grabs hold of his hand, and squeezes until the man drops his whip.
“Now Chagai, I have warned you before. You never have call to beat a child like that.”
“He was playing where he shouldn’t, fell back on the shelf where I have my most ornate pottery, and broke every one. Look. See for yourself.”
“I will build another shelf for you higher up. Also, I will chisel a sign for you that you can nail to the front of your booth saying something like The Best Potter in Judea. Will that make up for your loss?”
“Well…”
“Llan, have you been learning very much about pottery making from your master?”
“Yes, sir. He is a good teacher, I guess.”
“When you get very good, I want you to make something special for me.”
“What is it?” Chagai asks.
“I need a small jar and a large jar. The large one is to store my scroll of Isaiah in.”
“I could make it for you for the right price. What is the small one for?”
“I keep a scroll with lists on it of my customers so I can keep track of them all. If you can make the large one for me this week, I will pay you double.”
Arrangements are made, and Joseph returns to his shop.
Two days later, Joseph is at the pottery shop next to his own with the shelf.
“Here you are, Chagai, as promised.”
“Thank you. And my sign? Where’s my sign? You promised me a sign.”
“It will be coming soon. I had to fill an order for a door. We don’t want people in Bethlehem not feeling secure.”
“True, but…”
Joseph looks around. “Uh, Chagai, where is Llan?”
“Oh, him? He went on an errand for me.”
Joseph hears a high-pitched noise coming from the back of the potter’s shop. He raises the counter so he can go in, and sees Llan on the floor in a corner, holding his arm close to his chest. He stoops and moves Llan’s good hand out of the way.
“When did this happen?” Joseph asks over the child’s crying.
“What happen?” Chagai responds.
Joseph stands. “You didn’t even have the decency to go see someone who knows how to put broken bones back.”
“Oh, that. It’s not broken.”
“Why is his arm bowed in the middle where it shouldn’t be?”
Joseph bends over again. Keep your bad arm close to your chest like you were doing, son,” he whispers. With that, he picks up the boy and leaves the pottery shop, the boy still crying in pain.
Taking long and quick strides, Joseph walks to the home of his cousin on the other side of the hill that is Bethlehem.
“Dalit,” he calls through her gate, “it’s Joseph. I have someone here who needs you. Dalit, are you here?”
The gate squeaks open. His cousin is taller than most women and has the same dark hair as Joseph’s. She has flour on one cheek and on her hands.
“Oh, come in, come in,” she says wiping her hands on her tunic. “Take him back here,” she says.
Llan still crying, they enter a small room hardly large enough for the cot inside, a bench, and two people. Joseph lays the boy down and moves out of Dalit’s way.
“Look in my pantry and get out a jar I have labeled turmeric. I have a pot of stew on the fire. Dip a mug in it and get only the juice. Mix some of the turmeric leaves in it and bring it here. Quickly. His pain is only going to get worse.”
Joseph hurries to the kitchen area of her courtyard with a goat-hair awning over it. He looks over the shelves where she keeps her herbs and accidentally knocks some of the jars off with his big bulk. He puts them back.
Finding what he needs, he returns to the small room where Llan is lying on the cot, blowing on the broth in the mug as he goes.
“Here,” he says. “I hope I cooled it off enough you can drink it.”
Llan sips a little, then drifts off. Joseph takes the boy’s good hand and holds it while Dalit works to reset the child’s bone, all the while praying Llan is unconscious.
That accomplished, Dalit joins Joseph on the bench next to the cot.
“How did it happen?” she asks.
“His master he is apprenticing to. I think Chagai bought him because he is an orphan and he would not have parents to contend with.”
“So, he’s done this sort of thing before?”
“I think so. I’m not sure. He moved here from down in Beersheba several months ago. He said he heard business would be better for him here.”
“Now what?”
“Of course, it is against our law to mistreat slaves. I will approach the city elders and request that I be allowed to take him.”
“Joseph, since my husband died, I have been needing help here. This boy would be perfect. Why don’t you let me take him in?”
Joseph smiles. “Good idea. As spindly as he is, he could probably help you more than he could me.”
He stands. “Well, I need to go over to the east gate and see the elders there about this matter. I can come back tomorrow on my way to sign papers the elders may have for me.”
Joseph takes care of the boy’s ownership with the elders, then works his way back to the market. He does not stop at his shop but goes directly to the potter’s. Joseph does not have a chance to say anything.
“Where is he? What have you done with my slave?”
“He is no longer your slave, sir,” Joseph replies, standing tall, eyes glaring down at his neighbor.
“What do you mean? I bought him with perfectly good money.”
“You also bought his freedom with your cruelty. The city elders have been notified and the final papers will be signed by this time tomorrow.”
“How dare you? This was none of your business.” Chagai points his crooked finger at Joseph’s nose.
“You made it my business when you mistreated that boy. You are a grown man. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Get out! Get out of my shop. You will pay for this, Joseph. You will be sorry you ever crossed me.”
The next day before starting to work and getting full of sawdust, Joseph goes to the east gate of Bethlehem to confer with the city elders. He signs a witness statement, and the elders agree for Dalit to take Llan in.
“How would you like to stay here from now on?” Joseph asks the boy upon arrival at his cousin’s house.
Llan does not answer.
“Oh, I know the pain must be terrible. Broken bones hurt. You just keep drinking the tea Dalit gives you for pain. Now, did you hear what I just asked you?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy responds, sitting up on his cot and holding on to his broken arm as though his healthy hand will help with the healing.”
“Well? What do you think? Would you like to stay here and help Dalit from now on?”
Llan’s eyes mist. He stares at his protector a moment. “Would she? Chagai says I am no good.”
“What does he know? My cousin here is a lot smarter than him, and she says you are a very good boy.”
“I wouldn’t have to go back there? I could stay here from now on?”
“Yes. Now, I will come see you every day and…”
“Joseph, I smell smoke,” Dalit says, interrupting the conversation. “Look. Look up at the sky. There is a lot of it.”
“It may be coming from the market,” Joseph replies. “I’d better get over there and see what I can do to help.”
Joseph gently embraces the boy and his cousin and rushes out the gate. As he nears the market, the smoke grows thicker. People now scramble, choking and stumbling to escape the thick, dark billows.
Joseph tries to draw closer, but cannot.
“Don’t try it, Joseph,” Pinchas says.
“There’s nothing you can do,” Ovadi says.
“But someone needs my help.”
“It’s not someone, Joseph. It’s you. It’s your shop.”
Joseph looks at his friends and at the smoke. He stares at the sky and back at his friends. He turns in place, his brows furrowed and squinting.
“C’m on, Joseph. There is nothing you can do. Just sit here while it burns itself out. There is nothing you can do.”
Joseph stumbles over to the bench provided by the baker’s husband. He sits on it, shakes his head back and forth, runs his fingers through his black hair, stands, walks in circles, and sits again. He looks in the direction of the smoke, leans his elbows on his knees, and covers his head with his hands.
When he looks up, he sees the baker.
“What am I going to do?” he asks the woman with flour in her hair.
She says nothing, but sits next to the young man and takes his big hand into her own.
It is an hour before the smoke dies down enough Joseph can get to what is left of his shop, his business, his home.
He shuffles his big feet between the few remaining live embers. Most of what he owns is now turned to black worthlessness. He walks toward the back, picks up a stick that has cooled, and pokes among the ashes.
“Well, I think the metal parts of my tools have survived,” he says, though he does not know whether anyone is close enough to hear.
After a while—though he does not know how long that is—he hears the familiar voice of his cousin.
“Come home with me,” she whispers. “We can come back tomorrow when things have cooled off enough you can dig out what is still good.”
“No, I’m going to do it now.”
He shuffles over to his little well and pulls up the bucket, thankful he had attached it to a chain instead of rope. He takes it to where his tools are and pours the water over them. One by one he rescues his tools and sets them out in the street in front of what once was his gate.
“Well, at least put them in this basket the baker loaned me,” Dalit says.
By noon it is all over. Joseph picks up his basket and walks with his cousin to her home on the other side of Bethlehem.
When he walks in, Dalit puts a finger over her lips and shakes her head at Llan. His smile disappears and he waits, squatting on the floor, for the grownups to tell him what terrible thing has happened.
Dalit returns to her baking she had interrupted earlier.
“Do you have any idea how the fire got started?” she asks from under the canopy that is her kitchen.
“Yes, I know exactly how. And who.”
“So?”
“It was…” he looks over at the boy watching him, “well, it does not matter. I am sure he has long left the city and is on his way to set up his business elsewhere.”
“You need to report him so he can be punished for what he did.”
“You mean, for restitution? The lumber I can replace. The tools I can fix. That little bit of land I own never was worth much anyway—just a room, a courtyard, and a gate. The wall around the room and courtyard are still there. The roof and gate I will replace some day.”
It is quiet for a while. Llan walks over to Joseph, sits next to him on his bench, reaches up his thin arm, and puts it as far as he can reach across Joseph’s bulky shoulders.
Joseph looks down at the boy and smiles. “We will forgive him. Won’t we, Llan?”
Llan does not respond. He wrinkles his brow and squints, staring up at his benefactor.
“Have we not ever sinned?” Joseph asks the boy. “We must treat others the way we want to be treated. We will not only forgive him, but we will wish him well and pray for him. Isn’t that right, Llan?”
Llan takes his arm down and lays his head on Joseph’s shoulder.
At noon, Dalit serves some cheese and figs along with a slab of flat bread. Llan takes what is given to him and sits back on the cobble stone to eat it.
Despite the trauma going on in his life, Joseph eats everything she has given him. Then he slaps his hands on his knees, stands, and takes a deep breath.
“I’m going for a walk. I’ve got to notify my customers and promise refunds to those who have already paid me.”
“Wait,” Dalit says. “Here are some clean clothes my husband used to wear. Clean up first. Then go.”
An hour later, Joseph leaves out the gate. He stays gone the rest of the afternoon.
Just before sundown, Joseph returns.
“Well, it is settled,” he announces.
“What’s settled?” Dalit asks.
“I’m moving to Jerusalem.”
“But your home is here, Joseph. You have lived here all your life. You are not going to just desert the city of our ancestor, David.”
“I am needed elsewhere for now. King Herod has completed rebuilding the temple. Now he wants rooms built around the expanded courtyard walls for the out-of-town priests and other temple helpers to stay in, as well as for storage. They need door frames and doors made. I am going to Jerusalem and ask for a job at the temple.”
“Can I go with you?” Llan asks.
“You are needed here. We must always go where we are most needed,” Joseph replies, ruffling the boy’s hair.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Dalit warns. “They don’t need you that bad. King Herod is evil and dangerous. He thinks nothing of killing his own family members if he thinks they are threatening his throne. You are a descendant of King David. You are a threat to him. You could be next.”
“There is no reason for him to know.”

Order Now!

<< Go Back


Developed by Camna, LLC

This is a service provided by ACFW, but does not in any way endorse any publisher, author, or work herein.